


In the Light of Day

by Smutnug



Series: Juliet [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Cullenlingus, Desk Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Vaginal Sex, there it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-03 16:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10971093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: “She looks like her, no?”The spymaster’s approach had been silent, her voice pitched low for his ears alone.“What?” Flustered, he rubbed the back of his neck, focused his attention back on the soldiers. “Who?”He glanced at Leliana. Her expression gave nothing away, but she saw through him.“Solona.”





	1. Chapter 1

_No. It wasn't real. I never touched her. I never touched her._

Not even in love. It would have been a violation, an unforgivable abuse of power. Even if her shy smiles, the way her wide grey-blue eyes followed his movements, told him that she might harbour the same feelings for him.

The nightmare left him nauseated, still so clear in his mind, the image of her on hands and knees, crying out his name in pleasure, _Cullen, yes, oh yes_. Wait, no, in pain. His fingers digging hard into her hips as he thrust into her. _Stop, Cullen. Why are you doing this? I haven't done anything wrong. Please don't, please._ Crying, he made her cry _._

It was hard to tell after all this time what was the memory of a vision, a twisted conjuring meant to break him, and what was a product of his own tortured imagination. Or, he wondered sometimes, were they one and the same? Perhaps the demons that invaded his thoughts back then could only show him what they found, the depraved urges buried at the back of his mind. But he had never wanted that, never. Not in his darkest moments.

The nightmares were worse without the lyrium, sharper, easier to recall in the light of day. This was one he had had before and far from the worst of them. He staggered from bed to the washbasin, splashed his face with frigid water to banish the image from his mind and distract from his growing headache.

By the time he was clad in the familiar weight of his armour, he couldn't quite recall which girl he had dreamed of.

 

The Inquisitor was chatting with Varric and her laughter pealed across the courtyard, drawing his attention from the sparring soldiers. Blue-grey eyes shining with mirth, skin pale and lightly freckled. Brown hair even worn in the same style, a thick braid over one shoulder, rebellious strands escaping around her face. He was momentarily entranced by the curve of her lips.

“She looks like her, no?”

The spymaster’s approach had been silent, her voice pitched low for his ears alone.

“What?” Flustered, he rubbed the back of his neck, focused his attention back on the soldiers. “Who?”

He glanced at Leliana. Her expression gave nothing away, but she saw through him.

“Solona.”

He hadn't heard it spoken in a long time. When she was mentioned at all - less every year since the blight - most people used her title. To speak the Hero of Ferelden's name seemed somehow irreverent. There were precious few left who knew her as Solona Amell. Here in Skyhold only the left hand of the Divine, and himself.

“I hadn't noticed. You there, shield up!” He rested his hand on his sword pommel, glanced at Leliana who still watched him impassively.

“I would like to talk about her. It has been so long. If you ever…” She looked back to the Inquisitor, her eyes distant, then she nodded slightly in farewell and retreated as silently as she had appeared, leaving him agitated and feeling oddly exposed.

The Inquisitor caught his eye and grinned, waved. He hesitated a moment too long and before he had raised his hand she was moving away, still deep in conversation with the dwarf.

Her name was Juliet. She was not her, not Solona.

 

The day they carried her out of the breach he had glimpsed her unconscious face and found himself frozen for a moment, before his mind registered the small differences. Lips, less full. Nose, chin, wrong in small ways he couldn't identify, but the cheekbones, the dark eyelashes, the complexion, hers. Even with the pallor of illness, the dust of the explosion coating her like a frost, the likeness was striking. But too young. Solona would be his own age, not this smooth-cheeked child. And to find her here would be an impossibility.

Juliet Trevelyan, they called her. A mage of Ostwick, far from home, in truth without a home - her family, once contacted, were quick to distance themselves.

The day came when she was awake, lightning flickering around her in the wintry air, her face set in grim determination. He saw her eyes for the first time. The same colour of a sky in storm, but not so wide, not so innocent.

When she spoke it was with the confidence of a noble, the ring in her voice of one used to being obeyed. Not for this girl the shy sweetness of Solona, the downcast eyes and blushes.

From the first she flirted with an ease that made him pity the Templars of the Ostwick Circle. She was amused when her attentions made him squirm and stammer. So unlike her, yet at a distance the sight of her made his heart stop in his chest.

 

“Doesn't it tire you out, Curly?” Varric’s plate was piled high, his voice muffled by a mouthful of food.

Cullen tore his eyes from Juliet, studying a pile of missives in the dim light of the hall as she absentmindedly picked at her dinner.

“I'm sorry, what?” He frowned down at the smirking dwarf.

Varric swallowed his food, nodded towards the Inquisitor. “I'm just saying. You've been carrying that torch for a while now. It must get heavy."

“Maker's…” He speared the remains of his frugal meal with a fork, washed it down with a cup of watered wine before pushing his chair back. “I have things to do.”

“If you say so.” Varric shook his head as the Commander left the table.

 

Leliana paused in her writing as he reached the top of the stairs. “Commander.” She poured a cup of wine, slid it across the table towards him.

“Cullen, please.” He sat heavily, curling his fingers around the cup before meeting her eyes. “So.”

She smiled and raised her cup. “So.”

They drank then sat in comfortable silence, surrounded by the soft flapping of wings in the dark, the tap of claws shifting on perches. Finally he cleared his throat.

“You were there.” It wasn't a question. Some details were the subject of wild tales and rumour, others common knowledge. “At Fort Drakon.” She inclined her head. “Would you tell me...what you remember?”

She sat a long time before answering. When she spoke her voice was soft, distant.

“There were four of us. Me. Zevran. Alistair. Solona.”

The name again. _Hero of Ferelden_ conjured a figure from a tale, larger than life, wielding an enchanted sword and summoning the powers of the elements against her foes. _Solona_ , a grey-eyed girl in soft blue robes, brown hair escaping in wisps from her braid.

“And the mages, only a handful of them. Nine? Less, at the end. Finally there was a break in the fighting. The archdemon was down.”

She looked up at him as if waiting for permission to continue and he nodded, letting out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding.

“I saw them - he took her arm. Held her back. I was too far away to hear, but his face...he was saying goodbye. Ready to deliver the final blow, instead of her.”

“He cared for her a great deal, then.”

“Yes. And she for him.” Leliana paused, ever the bard, the storyteller. She smiled faintly. “Before he could take a step she hit him, hard. Hard enough to send him sprawling. He was a warrior, and not a small man. I still don't know where she found the strength.”

Somehow he found himself smiling too at the incongruous thought of gentle, soft-hearted Solona Amell, striking the King of Ferelden with enough force to knock him down.

“After that it happened so fast. There was a great light and a rush of noise, and we were thrown back...when we recovered…”

Cullen placed his gloved hand over hers. He didn't need her to continue. The scene had played out often enough in his nightmares. Why ask her to describe the crumpled body, the sightless eyes, the stench of fire and blood?

“We could hear them cheering in the streets. The tide of battle had turned. A victory.” A tear ran down the Nightingale’s cheek. “All we could do was stand and watch while he held her against him, stroking her hair. Whispering words in her ear that he knew she couldn't hear."

A final piece of the puzzle. “He loved her.”

“We all did. But Alistair, most of all.”

“And he never married.”

“He should have. They talked about it, before...he couldn't marry her, but the kingdom needed an heir. After, he put it off, and time passed...he's still a young man, but I don't think he ever will.”

“Were they...happy? Together?”

She shook her head. “Yes. For a time.” All too short a time. But she had been loved. That at least was something.

“Thank you.” He squeezed her hand then let it go, drained his cup. “I should go.”

Her soft voice caught him before he started down the stairs. “Cullen…if you find the time, I would like to hear more about her. Before. It seems there is so little left of her, now.”

He turned. “I'd like that. I'm sure you have some stories too.”

“Oh yes.” She picked up her quill, drew the stack of parchment towards her. “Goodnight, Commander.”

His dreams that night were filled with fire and blood. But when he woke he held in his mind the image of her cradled in strong arms. Loved.


	2. Chapter 2

She had come to see him in his office. She would ask him for news, his opinions on their progress, sometimes flirt lightly, braid twisting in her fingers. On occasion, when his guard was down, she would dig deeper. Such as today.

“Do you still regret the man you became after leaving Ferelden?”

The words were spoken casually. She awaited his answer, head tilted slightly to one side, her hip resting against his desk. She could not see how they made his throat clench, his stomach churn.

He strove to find the right answer. Yes, to put it simply, but she wouldn't accept the simple answer. When he spoke he was ashamed to find that he tried to justify his actions. To her, or to himself?

He had been complicit. Oh, he had done what he could to rein in the worst excesses of the Templar order, but a thousand abuses, small and large, were perpetrated under his command. Fear hung over the Gallows like a fog and that was how Meredith wanted it.

“I wanted mages locked away as much as she did." He didn't dare to look in her face. "I trusted they were being treated reasonably well, but I should have done more…”

Lies. How could he tell her the truth, that one would have to be blind and deaf to ignore the atrocities? He heard enough at his post in the Gallows to make his blood boil with impotent rage.

 _I belong to Ser Alrik now._ He knew, but how could he act on the word of a Tranquil? Sick relief when the man disappeared. Hawke’s doing, he suspected, and hated himself for his gratitude.

Even now he tried to downplay his responsibility. “I should have looked into it.”

Instead he chose his battles carefully. Bethany, Solona’s cousin - he had deemed her more worthy of protection than most, felt almost guilty at being the one to bring her in, but there was only so long he could ignore Hawke's apostate sister. In his day to day duties it was best to overlook the beating of a tranquil if it left him the power to spare the rape of an apprentice. Small crimes traded for larger ones, a blind eye turned in the name of safety.

 _Mages cannot be treated like people._ His own words to Hawke. Had her sister been there when he said that? And treated like animals the mages responded like dogs backed into a corner, lashing out with the only defense left to them. The cycle continued, until the final bloody end.

Oh yes, he was complicit. How could she bear to be near him, knowing even a fraction of his crimes? But there was no judgement in her eyes. He allowed himself to relax, just a fraction.

 

Juliet would catch him watching her sometimes with a quiet intensity. Templar training, she reasoned. She knew something of his history - he had seen enough abominations in his time to justify some wariness around mages. It made sense to distance yourself, to see them as less than human. Sympathy led to hesitation, and to hesitate was death.

It was something she had made herself do in the early days, coming up against rebel mages in the Hinterlands. If she didn't, it was all too easy to picture her brothers and sisters in the Circle. Not all the mages had a place to go when the Circles dissolved, some more violently than others. Many did not know their families or would not be welcome back.

She had been fortunate to have even the reluctant acceptance of the Trevelyans. Mother's genteel embarrassment, Father's barely concealed fear. This fate could easily have been hers. After the first battle at the crossroads she had retreated a moment to empty her stomach in the undergrowth, shaking, before once again donning the cool mask befitting a Trevelyan.

She was relieved beyond measure when the war was ended and the mages brought under the Inquisition’s banner. It had angered Cullen, she remembered. Thankfully she had many years’ practice at not backing down before Templars - a habit she now knew would not have gone unpunished, in most Circles - and he had reluctantly accepted her judgement, returning to his soft, respectful, watchful manner.

She couldn't recall the moment she had stopped being afraid of him. She should be afraid of him. He was armed, armoured, able to strip her own defences with scarcely more than a thought, and he watched her like a hunter might watch a wolf. Or a wolf, a hunter. But when she caught his eyes on her, it awoke a different feeling, one that started in her stomach and spread to her thighs, something like…

No. There was no future in those thoughts. She was the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. She should be thankful that any of them saw her as a person, much less a woman. She had learned her lesson.

 

 _I belong to Ser Alrik now._ The blank eyes of a tranquil, blue-grey. Now Solona, now Juliet on her knees, a gauntleted fist in her brown hair. He awoke in a cold sweat, hours from dawn. In his desk, just down the ladder. A tiny vial of blue lyrium. He stayed in bed, his head pounding.  _No lyrium. That's an order._ If there was anything he was good at, it was obeying orders.

No use going back to sleep even if he could. He had a catalogue of nightmares at his disposal.

_Her body warm and soft under his. Blue-grey eyes looking up at him, trusting. Then clouded, dull, his fingers wrapped around her throat._

_Her body warm and soft under his. Blue-grey eyes looking up at him, trusting. Then laughing, her mouth opening wider, face splitting in two, bulbous growths cracking through her skin, an abomination._

_Asleep, fighting a demon they had summoned. Too long, she had failed. His sword across her throat, her eyes opening, why Cullen, why, but only blood spilled from her mouth._

Juliet. Sunshine in the garden. A small frown of concentration as she pondered the chessboard. Easy laughter. We should do this more often.

Perhaps he should.


	3. Chapter 3

Hours had been spent at the war table but he was somehow reluctant to see the council end. No excuse now to watch her, although his eyes lingered on her as she left the room, her curves accentuated by the close-fitting breeches and tunic she favoured in Skyhold.

A slow movement caught his eye. Morrigan. She had a way of blending into the background and only now he noticed her, a cool amusement in her yellow eyes. Caught ogling the Inquisitor like a randy apprentice, he busied himself with a stack of papers.

“Commander Cullen.” Her voice was soft and languid. “It has been a long time, has it not?”

There it was. The illusion shattered, that she hadn't known him, that the glint of recognition as he passed her at the Winter Palace had been his imagination. He was gruff now, abrupt. “I don't recall that we spoke much, then.”

“Not I.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the solid oak of the war table. “You had much to say though, I recall.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes. Those unnatural eyes had become a feature of his nightmares. The contrast, Solona's grey eyes wide and sorrowful, Morrigan’s yellow and narrowed in contempt. Now here she stood regarding him with frank appraisal, a witness to his spiteful words.

“Is there something you would say, Lady Morrigan? If not, I have other matters to see to.” He gathered his papers, had almost reached the door before she spoke again.

“I offered her a way out, you know.” It was enough to make him pause. “Our _hero_.”

He narrowed his eyes at the mocking inflection in her last words. “What do you mean?”

“A chance to defeat the blight, and survive.” Her lips were curved in the hint of a smile.

He turned fully to face her. “How?”

“Does it matter? She did not take it.” Her mockery was gone, replaced by a hint of anger that grew as she spoke. “You should know that she learned her lessons well. She was too schooled against temptation to know salvation when it was offered. With the Chantry in one ear and Wynne in the other, reminding her of her responsibilities as though they did not weigh her down with every breath, poisoning the one small happiness she found.” Her stare seemed to penetrate to his very bones. “That is what your Circles did - made prisoners of them even when the bars were gone.”

“It was not a prison.” Prisons were dark, dank places. There were no bars in the Fereldan circle.

She gave a mirthless laugh.“Was it not? The mages could come and go as they pleased, then?”

He placed his papers down with a sigh. “It was...not intended as a punishment.”

“And yet.” She was silent, smug.

He scowled, fingers gripping tightly on the table's edge. “You're saying Solona chose her death.”

“I doubt that she would have viewed it that way, but yes.” A softening then, an unexpected sorrow in her voice. “She did not see it as a choice.”

“What did she fear so much about the alternative?”

“Life? There was much to fear.” She easily skirted his true question. “She was afraid that with the blight ended they may drag her back to the Circle, with nothing left to her but the memory of freedom.” He had made it abundantly clear that there was nothing for her there. “Or perhaps worse, that she would be free to live her life unbound, in the wild chaos of the world. One does not release a caged bird and expect it to survive long on its own.”  Once more sadness clouded her expression. “It was the only measure of control left to her in the end. Sacrifice. To die like a good mage, a hero, and spare everyone the inconvenience of her survival.”

He closed his eyes, pained. “Why torture me with this now?”

“An interesting choice of words.” Morrigan raised a single eyebrow. “My own last words to her were also harsh. I would that it had not been so. She was a friend - the first that I ever called such. Now, we owe her the truth.”

She straightened from her position, once more fixed him with her yellow gaze. “I know that she cared for you, and she would wish for you to be happy. If we are to take one lesson from our friend, let it be this: do not sacrifice a chance at happiness for fear of the unknown.”

He looked at her, incredulous. “Lady Morrigan, are…are you attempting to play matchmaker?”

She glared. “If your feelings for the Inquisitor are more than a passing infatuation with someone who resembles your lost love - “

“How _dare_ \- “

“ - then yes, I am saying it would be foolish of you not to pursue it.” She sighed. “Let me remember her and think of something other than ugliness and death. Let yourself be more than the broken boy we left behind at the Tower. So much has been lost that might have been. This is what she would want for you.”

A brief, uncomfortable hand on his shoulder, then he stood lost for words as she stalked out of the war room, closing the door ungently behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun shining down on the ramparts revealed coppery strands in Juliet’s dark hair, made him almost uncomfortably warm beneath his plate and furred cowl. Or perhaps it was her nearness, her lips parted slightly, her eyes raised to his, more blue than grey in the sunlight.

She was clad more sensibly than he was for the weather, her breathing just now causing her chest to rise and fall in a distracting fashion beneath her blue tunic. It would take just a half step forward to press against those lips, to gently part her mouth with his, to taste her, slide his gloved hands around her body and hold her against him. The moment hung heavy between them.

“Commander. You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report.."

He clenched his fists. “ _What?_ ”

He dispatched the terrified scout and turned back to where she waited. _Maker's breath_. The way she leaned back on the ramparts, her head turned away, her pale neck exposed and her long eyelashes silhouetted against the blue sky. And the way she moved, restless with embarrassment and something more, a desire that matched his own.

“If you need to - “

With a few quick steps he was upon her, crushing her mouth to his, tenderness forgotten as a decade of need overtook him. She was eager against him, her mouth taking in his questing tongue, fingers clutched in his mantle. Cullen pressed her body against the stone ramparts, a hand wrapped around her waist and another in her hair. Maker, he was in full armour. He would crush her if he wasn't careful, but she didn't seem to mind. He drew back, breathless.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…” He wasn't sure what he meant to say after that but it didn't matter. She slid a hand around the back of his neck, the small contact of their bare skin sending a pulse to his groin, and kissed him again. He found his hands traveling her body, frustrated by the stiff fabric between them. She broke away to undo the top clasps of her tunic, exposing the curve of her breast, and with a moan he pressed his lips against the swell of her flesh, hands pulling her hips tight against him.

She held him to her, her breath coming quick and shallow. He wanted to take her right here, hard and fast against the ramparts. But it was broad daylight, and patrolling scouts could appear at any moment. It wasn't far to his quarters, he could take her into the loft and pound her into the mattress and they could go on their way without missing their next meetings.

Where did these base thoughts come from? She deserved better. She was the Inquisitor, the Herald. She deserved courtship. No, worship. He was brutish and unworthy, beneath her.

Cullen straightened, not pulling away completely, but regaining some propriety although his cock was uncomfortably hard in his breeches. He kissed her once more, this time the gentle kiss he had planned, her lips soft and full against his.

She looked up at him and for a second he was disoriented, unsure whose blue-grey eyes watched him softly, whose warm breath tickled his skin. He rubbed his brow. Juliet, a small frown on her face.

“We should…”

“Yes.”

But what should they? Neither of them were sure.

Boots on the stairs, and they drew apart.

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“That will be all, Cullen. I'll talk to you soon.”

Maker's breath, was that a wink? He hid his smile behind a gloved hand, tried not to stare as she walked away.

 

“Bull.”

“How's it doing, boss?”

“Good.” Juliet shifted nervously from foot to foot.

He reclined in his chair, a formidable presence in the small corner of the tavern, massive legs sprawled out in front of him. The serving girls at least didn't seem to mind that they had to squeeze past him to go about their duties. “What can I do for you?”

“I needed a drink.”

“I can see that.” He looked at her with amusement in his single eye. “This is more like my drinking hour than yours, but the bar's right over there. And boss,” he added as she turned to go. “You've got a little...situation there. With your clothes.”

“Fuck.” She faced the wall to undo her tunic clasps and refasten them in the right order. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” He stood, towering over her. “On second thought, let me get that drink. You sit.”

She took the chair gratefully, held her hands against her cheeks to cool her face. He returned with two pints of ale and propped himself against the wall.

“So I'm your go-to for man trouble now?”

She scowled. “You started it.”

“Can't argue with that.” Bull nodded at her pint. “Drink up.”

She took a long pull of ale, wiped her mouth with her sleeve in a way Mother would definitely have disapproved of.

“So...Cullen?”

She sighed. “I am...reasonably certain he sees me as a woman.”

He huffed in amusement. “Yeah, it looks that way. But?”

“Something’s off.”

“The lyrium thing?”

She glanced up at him. “I won't ask how you know about that, but no. At least I don't think so. I think, perhaps the Inquisitor thing. Or the mage thing.”

It was difficult to see in the dim light, but he might have frowned slightly. After a moment he said, “I think you need to talk to Red.”

“Leliana? How can she help?”

“Just talk to her.” He clapped a huge hand on her shoulder as she moved to stand. “Not now. After dinner. Finish your drink and you can pester me about the Ben-Hassrath some more.”

 

“And she said, ‘I'm so sorry Ser, it was supposed to be a healing potion!’"

Leliana joined in his laughter. “She was terrible with herbs. It seemed we spent a fortune on potions any time we came across a merchant.”

He sipped his wine, still smiling. “Your turn.”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Tell me...about Alistair.”

She examined his face. “You mean about her and Alistair.”

His amber eyes stayed fixed on his cup, the smile faded. “I suppose I do.”

“You want to know if they were lovers?”

“Well, I - that is - they were in love, you said, but I didn't want to assume...I'm sorry, it's none of my business.”

“It's fine, Cullen. They were.” The memory made her smile. “They were as discreet as they could be, but in camp...at least more discreet than Zevran!” Even bard training couldn't stop her blush.

“Zevran...the assassin? You and he…?”

“No!” Not for lack of trying on Zevran’s part, in the beginning. “He and Solona. They were together first.”

“Maker. I had no...an Antivan Crow! What happened?”

She looked at him with surprise.“How much detail do you want to hear?”

He turned crimson. “I mean, how did - how did she come to be with Alistair instead?”

“Of course.” She leaned back, her voice growing distant. “She was fond of Zevran, but she and Alistair had been through so much...I think he was in love with her from the beginning. And when they went back to Ostagar - I didn't go with them, but something had changed between them when they returned. Zevran took it well, but I think he felt her loss more than he showed. He could see, though, they were very much in love.”

Cullen was silent, absorbing this new information. She cleared her throat gently.

“Inquisitor, won't you join us?”

He started and turned around in his seat as Juliet emerged sheepishly from the stairs.

“I'm sorry, I didn't want to interrupt.”

“It's quite alright.” Leliana rose to fetch another cup. “Please, sit.”

Cullen had that look on his face again, as if it were a ghost that had entered the room instead of the Inquisitor. She should talk to him about that.

“You were talking about the Hero of Ferelden?” Juliet accepted the cup of wine with a smile. “I didn't think - she would have been at the Circle, at the same time as you. Did you know her?”

Cullen cleared his throat. “A little.” He glanced guiltily at Leliana. “I attended her Harrowing, actually. She was a lovely woman.”

“Lovely?" He didn't meet her eyes. "And you traveled with her during the blight?” Leliana gave a small nod of assent.

“What was she like?” Juliet propped her chin on her hand, looked curiously between them.

Cullen looked pained. Leliana filled the silence before it grew more awkward.

“She was...very young. Something of an innocent. She couldn't walk past a problem without trying to solve it, to make everything work out for the best. It drove Morrigan mad!” She laughed softly. “But she won even her over, in the end. It was difficult to say no to her, somehow.”

She glanced at her companions, Juliet enraptured, Cullen frowning at his wine. “There was a stubbornness in her, as well. She found an old sword in Redcliffe, she could barely lift it but she insisted on paying the family far too much to keep it - they were orphans, of course, she could not resist orphans. She made us all help to train her, saying she couldn't rely on magic all the time. At first she fought with more enthusiasm than skill, but when she swapped a shield for two blades she learned fast. The day she found Spellweaver - “ the sword sung of in all tales of the Hero, won from a cultist mage in Haven, “ - I won't say it was a good day, but she was excited about the sword. Like a child with a new toy. A sharp, enchanted toy.”

Juliet’s eyes shone. “And she was an Arcane Warrior?” It was an ancient art, all but lost, the origin of Juliet’s own discipline of Knight-Enchanter.

“That is a story in itself, but yes. She defeated Teyrn Loghain in single combat, a seasoned warrior, using her blades as much as magic. She was formidable.”

Of course there would be some hero worship for the girl who had defeated the blight, and won autonomy for the Ferelden circle with her sacrifice. Cullen looked deeply uncomfortable, even before the next question came.

“What did she look like?”

This time Leliana looked to Cullen, waited for him to meet her eyes before giving a barely perceptible nod.

“She looked...a bit like you,” he answered. Leliana raised her eyebrows a fraction. “A lot like you, actually.”

Juliet searched his face and he flickered his eyes to hers, looked back at the cup gripped in his gloved hands.

“Oh.” She looked to Leliana, back to Cullen. “How like me, exactly?” When there was no answer, her voice grew flat. “Describe her.”

Cullen finally looked at her. “She had grey eyes. Blue-grey, in fact.” His gaze travelled over her face, her hair. “Freckled skin. Hair, brown. Worn…” he gestured at his shoulder, eyes falling to her braid.

She looked to Leliana for confirmation. “I see.” She stood abruptly. “I should go.”

“No, let me.” Cullen pushed back from the table. “I have a million things to see to.” His heavy tread grew fainter on the stairs as Juliet stood still, swirling the wine in her cup.

“Inquisitor.”

Her blue-grey eyes were guarded. “He loved her?”

“A crush, I think.” Leliana chose her words carefully. “They were both very young. The last time they spoke, he was unkind. I think the memory of her is difficult for him, still.”

“And when he looks at me…” the younger woman’s voice trembled, just a little. “Who does he see?”

What could she say, that wouldn't make matters worse? “You should talk to Cullen.”

She snorted. “You say that like talking to Cullen is the easiest thing in the world.” She straightened then, the mask of Inquisitor back in place. “I should go, too. I've wasted enough time today.”

 _Let the blade pass through the flesh,_ __  
_Let my blood touch the ground,_  
_Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice._

But there was always more to sacrifice. The spymaster sighed and returned to her work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

Juliet sat on the bed cross-legged, absentmindedly chewing the end of her braid.

She remembered Redcliffe, when she offered the mages an alliance. King Alistair had been firm up to that point, but not unreasonable. He had some sympathy for the mages, more than most. But when she spoke and he finally looked at her, there was such a strange expression on his face, an intensity she had mistaken for anger, a shake in his voice at odds with his previous demeanour.

He had seen it too, then.

When she was taken into the Circle she had gotten used to not having things of her own. She had never thought to number her face amongst them.

 

“Freckles.”

Juliet wrinkled her nose. “Please don’t call me that.”

Varric hoisted himself onto the seat next to her, his feet dangling. “I thought you liked Freckles. I put a lot of effort into these names, you know.”

She looked askance at him. “You put a lot of effort into Freckles?”

“Naturally. I’m a writer. We choose our words carefully.” He rested his elbows on the bar. “You spend much more time in here, people will start spreading rumours about your undying love for Cabot. People meaning me.”

She allowed herself a smile. “How about you tell them about my undying love for Ferelden ale?”

He took a draught of his own. “I hear that’s not the only Ferelden thing you have a passion for.”

“Andraste’s fucking tits, can we not?” She slammed her tankard down.

“Since you’re her Herald, I’m guessing she’ll let that slide.” Varric was unfazed. “Look, Freckles, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Curly, but right now he’s focusing all his love and attention on the recruits, and I don’t want you to have a desertion problem on your hands.” He patted her on the back. “Talk to him.”

“No.”

The dwarf sighed. “One day, I’ll tell you what real relationship problems look like.”

“That’s a little patronising.”

“But no less true. All I’m saying is, it’s not a real obstacle until someone hires assassins.” He drained his drink and hopped down from his seat. “Talk to Curly.”

 

She found herself standing outside his door, prepared to knock although she had never knocked before. Instead she pushed the door open and found him leaning on the desk, partially shielded from view by a knot of scouts. She slipped in quietly and leaned against the cool stone, allowed time for her head to clear. Soon the scouts filed out and they were left alone.

He closed the door, leaned against it. “When did you start wearing your hair out?” he asked.

“Just now.”

He raised a hand as if to touch her, let it fall back to his side. “It looks nice.”

“You didn’t like it better before?”

This time he did reach out, ran gloved fingers through the ends of her hair. “Juliet…”

She closed her eyes, felt a weight on her chest at the same time as a shiver ran through her, remembering the press of his body against hers, his lips warm on her skin. “You’ve never called me that before.”

“Have I not?”

“No. Lady Trevelyan. Herald. Inquisitor. Never my name.”

“I’ve thought it.” He was dangerously close now, his voice soft.

“My name?” she whispered. “Not hers?”

He cupped her face. “Yours. The woman who walked out of the Fade, twice. The woman who talked back to Cassandra Pentaghast, perhaps the single most terrifying person I know. The woman who left the Chantry in Haven to fight an archdemon without hesitation, just to buy her people some time. Who faced down an ancient magister then walked for miles, alone, in the snow, and survived. Who brought an end to two wars. Who saved the Empress of Orlais from assassination. Should I go on?”

She smiled weakly. “I could stand to hear more.”

“ _Juliet_.” He kissed her.

 

Somehow Cullen found himself pinning her against the desk, its contents scattered on the floor, his lips on her mouth, her neck, fingers clutching at her waist. She went still under him, and he pulled back to see her smiling.

“Cullen. You know you don’t have to wear full armour all the time.”

Returning her smile, he lifted his weight onto his forearms. “You never know, we could be taken by surprise.”

She gently nipped his earlobe. “The only thing that’s going to take you by surprise in here is me.”

“Is that so?” His hand cupped her thigh and he bit back an obscenity when she rocked her hips up against him.

“Yes,” she murmured in his ear. “But best lock the doors, just in case.”

With a reluctant groan he released her, moving to follow her order.

“Cullen? You’re still wearing too many clothes.”

He looked back at her, perched on the desk. “So are you.”

She pulled up a foot and began unlacing her boot. His eyes were drawn to the seam of her leggings, his imagination firing in a way that made him suddenly desperate to rid himself of his constraining armour. “Yes," she teased, "but I can undress faster than you.”

He grinned. “Challenge accepted.”

Cullen was down to his tunic and underclothes when he turned to find her utterly naked, boots and clothing tossed into a corner, resting back on her hands. Maker but she was a beautiful sight, long hair tumbling around her shoulders, round breasts upraised, their pink tips begging to be taken into his mouth. In a couple of strides he reached her and did just that, his fingers wrapping around her back as he closed his lips around one pert nipple, then the other. She moaned and arched into his mouth, her head lolling back.

“Cullen…”

“Mmmm?”

“Too...many...clothes.”

With a few swift movements he shed the offending garments and bent to kiss her again, fingers tangling in her dark hair. Her hands ran down his chest and his skin shivered when they reached his stomach.

She would have reached lower then, but he captured her hands and kissed them, staring at her blue-grey eyes gone soft with desire.

“Juliet,” he whispered with the reverence of a prayer. Supported by his hands she lay back on the desk, let him lift her legs and rest them over his shoulders. He kissed the inside of her thigh just once before he tasted her, a quick slide of his tongue along her slit.

The response was electric. She gasped, back arching. One hand moved to tangle in his curls and the other searched wildly above her head, finding the edge of the desk and gripping it hard. Encouraged, he ran the flat of his tongue upwards and felt her thighs quiver. He gripped her legs and buried his mouth between them, committing to his memory the scent of her, the taste, the tiny gasps and strangled sounds she made as he fucked her with his tongue. He moved upwards to find the tiny bud and flicked his tongue against it, around it.

“Cullen...slow…” She was almost convulsing above him, her heels digging into his back. “Too soon...can’t…”

“You can. I’m not going anywhere.” And he wasn’t, his tongue tracing slow strokes against her until she came hard, a keening sound breaking from her lips, muscles twitching under his grasping hands. He eased her down from her orgasm, holding her hips in place when she would have evaded him. Experience told him she was over sensitised for the moment but he could work her through it. Gently, so gently, he teased at her folds until her whines of protest turned to soft gasps of anticipation.

Her fingers slipped from his hair to splay on her abdomen. When he looked up her wide eyes were trained on the ceiling, rose-tipped breasts rising and falling with each laboured breath.

Maker, he would take this picture to his grave. The flush of arousal on her face and neck, her pink lips parted, hair spilling out in waves over the desk. And her perfect body, spread out before him like a feast.

“One day you’re going to tell me where a Templar learns to do that,” she said breathlessly.

“It’s standard training.”

She slapped at him weakly. “Come here. I can’t move.”

Cullen extracted himself from between her thighs to place a kiss on her hip. Then on the soft skin of her stomach, the underside of her breast, finally taking her nipple gently between his teeth and releasing it, her hoarse cry nearly shattering his restraint. “You can.”

He slid his hands under her back and lifted her to him, arms wrapped loosely around his neck. She sighed as he dragged his lips over the soft skin of her throat. Long legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him close. “You’re right,” she whispered. “I can.”

They kissed, gently but thoroughly until the meeting of lips and tongue became needier. She took his bottom lip between her teeth, drew back and made him chase her and he did, a hand at the back of her neck holding her hostage as he claimed her mouth with his. Finally he pulled back, unable to wait any longer.

His eyes were locked on hers as he yanked her hips closer to the desk’s edge. Grasping his rigid cock he guided himself inside her body, watching her eyelids flutter, marveling at her wet heat wrapped tight around him. Her mouth sought his once more and the feeling of her breasts brushing his bare skin made his hips jerk of their own volition. He drew back and sheathed himself again in a single violent thrust, hands on her spread thighs bracing her against his invasion.

Gasping, she clung to him, arms wrapped hard around his neck. Her hips rose to meet his, pounding against her, their skin meeting with a wet slap at each thrust. Hooking his arms under her knees he spread her wide, slamming harder, deeper inside her welcoming cunt until the solid desk shook. He felt as much as heard her desperate cries against his neck and he raised her face to capture them in his mouth, their lips and tongues tangling.

As he felt his own end approaching she threw her head back and came undone with a scream, leaving him just enough time to hope the thick stone walls would hide the sound before a shudder ran through him and he came inside her with a hoarse shout of his own, his back arching and fingers digging hard into her hips.

Shaking with the force of his climax, Cullen felt her searching fingers on his cheek. He opened his amber eyes and found eyes the blue-grey of a storm, unmistakably hers, looking up at him with something like wonder.

Juliet. His Juliet.


	6. Chapter 6

_Fire, fire in the streets. Greasy soot covered everything. His eyes watered and his throat burned. Bulky shapes moved in the smoke, twisted and deformed, abominations. There she was, lifeless on the cobblestones, neck bent at an odd angle. Or was that her, on her knees in the street, begging in the moment before she was run through by a Templar’s sword? Or there, her skin stretching, teeth growing long and sharp, rending a Templar in half with a sweep of her claws? Or there, in flames, wandering in erratic circles as she screamed? Everywhere he looked, she was dying._

 

“Bad dream?”

She was here, solid, alive. Her face soft with concern, brown hair tickling his bare chest.

A nightmare, then. Juliet was dressed, perched on the edge of his bed, and memories drifted back of a rushed ascent to the loft. Falling on the mattress, legs tangled in the blankets, lips and fingers trailing over bare skin, whispers, moans, breathless laughter.

“They always are. Without the lyrium, they're worse.” He reached for her and she leaned into his hand. “I didn't mean to worry you.”

She brushed his hair back. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Maker, no.” He leaned his forehead against hers, breathed in her scent.

“Take the morning off,” she murmured. “That's an order. If you're still here in an hour or two, I might join you.” She gave him a lingering kiss and ran a finger down his chest, then she was gone.

 

How long had it been? More than an hour, definitely, by the time she cleaned up a little and changed her clothes. Would he still be there? She hurried, breathless by the time she reached the top of the ladder.

He was sleeping peacefully. She stripped down to her smallclothes and climbed in next to him, resting against his warm chest. He stirred and gathered her close.

"Still here?"

"You gave me an order."

“Don't you get cold with that hole in the roof?”

He rubbed her fingers between his. “Not right now.”

“What if it rains?”

He chuckled softly. “If it ever rains here, I'll reevaluate my position.”

She slipped a leg over his. “You could reevaluate your position right now.”

“Could I?” He shifted slightly so his thigh rubbed between hers, sending a tingle down her legs. She slid the blanket down and took his nipple in her mouth, rolling it gently between her teeth.

Cullen groaned, took hold of her and pulled her on top of him, her legs straddling his pelvis, his cock rubbing against her smallclothes as his tongue slid into her mouth. His hands ran down her bare back and she rocked her hips into him, feeling him hardening under her, the friction sending a damp rush to her core.

He moved his hands to her breasts, rolling the nipples between his fingers, pinching. Juliet grabbed his wrists and held him there, squeezed her thighs around him and felt his hips buck against her.

With a low growl he rolled over and pinned her beneath him, her wrists on the pillow above her head held with one strong hand. He stroked sword-calloused fingers down her body, rough at her breast, then over her smallclothes, pushing the damp fabric against her sex until she squirmed and panted.

“Cullen…”

“Juliet.”

“Just fuck me already.”

He laughed, hooking a finger inside her smallclothes and dragging them down. “Is that an order, Inquisitor?”

“You're damned right it is.”


	7. Chapter 7

After, they lay sweaty in a tangle of blankets, her back against his chest.

“Tell me about your Circle.” He twined her hair around his fingers.

“What do you want to know?”

“Your life.” He touched her nose with the tip of his finger. “First love.”

“Love? I'm not sure I'd call it that." She bit her lip in thought. “My first was...another apprentice. My age, from a good noble family. Handsome. After curfew, in the library, against the wall.” She shrugged. “You know how these things go in the Circle.”

He frowned. Sad for her, she realised. “What happened to him?”

“Happened? Nothing. Well, I don’t know what happened to him later but at the time, he moved on. I wasn't the only girl in the Circle.” She smiled, brushed it off.

He rolled on to his stomach, resting on his elbows. “Was he the only boy? In the Circle?”

“There were others, but not anything serious.” She rested her head against him. “Attachments were frowned upon, which normally would have been a good enough reason to start one. But there was a sense of...impermanence, in the Circle. As if the whole thing was somehow a mistake and one day we’d go back to our old lives.” She smiled. “Of course in Ostwick, those of us with family were allowed chances to visit home. To see that our lives had moved on without us.”

He pressed his lips against her shoulder. “You're not on good terms with your family.” 

“They were quick enough to disown me after the Conclave.” She watched dust swirl in the sunlight shining through the roof. “To believe the worst of me. Or not even that...the scandal was enough, I think. They could barely tolerate having me home after the Circles fell. I don’t think they knew what to do with me. When I expressed interest in the Conclave they bought my passage and all but pushed me out the door.” It had been a relief for her as well. “I lost my title when I was a child. Now people call me Lady Trevelyan. I don't know what it means.” 

Cullen was watching her, again with that small frown.

“I'm sorry. That's not what you asked, is it?”

“No, I'm sorry. It can't have been easy for you.”

“It wasn't the worst Circle.” He flinched. She cast about for a change of subject. “You promised to tell me where you learned your...skills.”

“I did not!”

“I'm certain you did.”

“What time is it? I'm surprised they haven't come looking for me.”

“I posted a guard. Don't change the subject.”

He sat up. “You did what?”

“Inquisitorial perks. Lie down.” She reached to pull him down, the blanket falling to her waist, and he moaned and buried his mouth between her breasts.

“You have me enthralled,” he murmured against her skin. “Stop using your mage tricks on me.”

She ran light fingers down his spine. “It’s not magic, it’s my orders. You are trapped here forever by your excellent sense of duty.”

“Damn my dutiful nature.” He cupped her breast in his hand, flooding her belly with warmth. She wriggled.

“You’re changing the subject again.”

He looked up, his chin resting on her chest, the stubble deliciously scratchy against her breasts. “You don’t like this subject?” He squeezed her gently and she very nearly forgot the topic of conversation.

“Unhand me, Commander Cullen.” She pushed him away and onto his back, resting her elbows on his chest. “I will not be distracted.”

“We’ll see.” He smirked, but linked his hands behind his head. “Now, what were we talking about?”

“You.” She lowered her chin to rest on her hands, felt the warmth of his body as her breasts pressed against his chest.

He sighed and shifted beneath her. “Very well.” He looked up at the ceiling, beyond. “I had a difficult time, after the blight. I was troubled, angry. Unmanageable. Terrified, truth be told, when the King granted the mages autonomy. Greagoir had me transferred to Kirkwall and I went gladly.” His eyes flickered to hers, guilty.

“Go on.”

“It was a long journey. There was a woman on board, a merchant returning home to Starkhaven. She had been widowed in the blight. She was grieving, and I was weak, and...well, it was a long journey.”

Juliet guessed. “Her idea?”

He chuckled. “Oh yes. She was older, perhaps thirty. And not at all shy in telling me what she wanted. It was quite the learning curve.” He freed one of his hands to lift her hair from her neck, stroking her with his thumb. “It was one more thing I tortured myself with, later. That I had taken advantage of her in her grief.”

She pressed her lips to his chest. “I suspect you were just what she needed, at the time.”

He smiled and tangled his fingers in her hair. “I see that now. I doubt she was a woman to be easily taken advantage of.”

She shifted her weight, aware that the movement nudged her breasts harder against him. His hand tightened in her hair and he gripped the back of her neck, pulled her to him for a hungry kiss. She broke away and nipped lightly at his neck. “I should have someone track down this mystery merchant woman. Give her my thanks.”

"Don't you dare," he growled. He rolled her onto her back, trailed hot kisses over her breasts and belly. “Are we done talking about this now?”

“Oh yes,” she said, as he parted her thighs. “I’d much prefer a practical demonstration.”

He obliged.


	8. Chapter 8

The atmosphere at Skyhold was always festive when the Inquisitor returned from the field. The kitchens bustled, kegs were carried from the cellar, the keep buzzed with excitement. Cullen met her at the gate with a formal bow. “Welcome back, Inquisitor.”

“Good to be back, Cullen.” Her smile held a promise,  _ later. _

First to the war room to debrief, a cup of wine and a plate of food pressed into her hands, a seat beneath her despite her protests. “I've been on horseback for days!” But she was weary, and she sank gratefully against the solid chair.

Josephine and Cullen lingered after the meeting, the ambassador struggling to hide a delighted smile. “We have a surprise for you, Inquisitor. Come.”

Grumbling gently, she let Cullen pull her to her feet and followed them through the great hall and up to her quarters. Josephine’s eyes shone with excitement.

“A bath?” It was a massive oaken tub, freshly filled with steaming water. “Oh, Josie, it's...it's not marble.”

Josephine was crestfallen for a moment before Juliet giggled and drew her in for a crushing hug. “I'm sorry, that was cruel. It's wonderful. And now you have my travel dirt all over your clothes. Forgive me?”

Josie beamed. “Of course, Inquisitor.” She glanced at Cullen, standing with his arms behind his back. “Now if you'll excuse me…”

“Thank you.”

Before the door closed he had gathered her into his arms, her mouth open against his, hands splayed on his breastplate. They finally broke apart, breathless. “Maker, it's good to see you.” He cupped her cheek, drinking in the familiar sight of her blue-grey eyes. “You look exhausted.”

“Mmm. Have you ever been to the Hissing Wastes?”

“I have not.” He moved to untie the sash around her waist.

“Don't go there. Ever.” She balanced on him as he removed one leather boot, then the other. “I can undress myself, Cullen.”

“I can do it better.” To demonstrate, he pushed her jacket down over her shoulders, freed her hands before lifting her tunic over her head and running his thumbs over her breastband, circling her nipples. She let her eyes drift shut and leaned into his touch.

“Alright, I concede.” He ghosted his lips over her neck. She stood passively as he unfasted her breeches and tugged them down, easing them over her calves and feet. He knelt before her as she stood in her smallclothes, gently tracing new scars and bruises with his fingers, his lips. 

“I missed you,” she said, running fingers through his hair. He didn't answer, instead pressing his mouth at the juncture of her hip and thigh, tasting the salt on her skin, feeling her twitch and tremble under his touch.

“Cullen.” Her breastband drifted to the floor. He stood and pulled her back to his chest, gloved hands splayed on her naked breasts. 

“I was doing that,” he growled in her ear.

“You were too slow.”

He reached down and dragged one finger slowly up between her legs, before releasing her with a small nudge. “Bath. Now.”

She turned to him, head tilted slightly to one side. “You didn't finish undressing me.”

He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her smallclothes and dragged them slowly over her hipbones, his eyes locked on hers. They slipped down and around her ankles and she flicked them away with a dainty foot.

“Happy, my Lady Trevelyan?”

“Getting there.” She flashed an insolent smile at him before setting the tip of her foot gingerly in the hot water, finally stepping into the tub and lowering herself down with a contented sigh.

She spoke with her eyes closed. “It's missing something.”

“What's that, Inquisitor?”

“You.”

“I'm working on it, my lady.” He had already divested himself of gloves and mantle and was working on his boots. In a few short minutes he nudged her back gently, and eased in behind her, wrapping his legs around hers.

Drowsily, she let him soap her hair, working his fingers through the tangles. Then her neck, her shoulders, his hands lingering at her breasts, rubbing her soft nipples into hard peaks. He ran a hand down her belly and into the soft curls below, and she parted her legs for his questing fingers. The water slapped gently against the sides of the tub as his fingers moved inside her, the heel of his hand rubbing her clit until she came with a soft moan, her damp head falling back on his shoulder.

“Cullen?”

“Mmm?”

“Take me to bed.”

He lifted her and she stood in the tub as he toweled her body, wringing out the wet rope of her hair. They lay down on the clean sheets of her bed, and he shifted her relaxed limbs, eased inside her, her sleepy arms resting around his neck. She shuddered just once underneath him and he came soon after, his face buried in her damp skin. When he looked up she was already asleep, smiling. 

He tucked the blankets around them and kissed her on the head. “Welcome home, Inquisitor.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Her eyes were glassy, her lips blue, a thin trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. The air was heavy with smoke and sulphur. Corpses sprawled on the stone. A sword clutched in her lifeless fingers, sticky with darkspawn blood. Whispered words in her ear, cheering in the streets below, roiling orange sky overhead. Her head hanging limply, braid dangling, body clutched against an armoured chest._

“Solona.”

Cullen woke shaking, felt warm hands on his face, soft lips pressed to his brow. He clutched at her shoulders, let her hold his face to her breasts, his ragged breath leaving her skin damp.

“I'm here, Cullen,” she whispered as she rocked him, hands stroking his hair. “I'm here.”

He raised his face to hers. “Juliet.”

She smiled. “Yes. I've got you.”

He pulled her to him, his kiss desperate and hungry. She lay his head down on the pillows and returned his kiss gently, hesitantly. “Shh, Cullen.” She kissed his chest. “Shh.” The brush of her lips against his belly, then hesitation, an unspoken question. He threaded his fingers through her hair. His eyes drifted shut as her lips closed around his cock, silent tears spilling down his cheeks as she soothed his trembling body.

 

“Does it work?”

Bull looked at her quizzically. “You're going to need to be more specific, boss.”

“The stick thing. The hitting.”

He rolled his shoulders, braced himself for Cassandra’s charge and whistled, impressed, when she sent him staggering back half a step.

“Depends. Not for the big things. If it was that simple, we wouldn't need the reeducators.”

She grimaced and poked a loose stone with her boot. “Is it worth a try, though? Just to see?”

He straightened and looked down at her. “You want to hit Cullen with a stick?”

“Do not hit Cullen with a stick.” Cassandra’s expression was severe, but she softened a fraction when she looked at Juliet's face. “Nightmares?” She nodded. “It is to be expected. It will get better, I promise.”

“I want to help,” she said miserably.

“You do help.” Cassandra gripped her arm. “You give him strength.” When Juliet was silent, she said, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No. Maker, no.” She already couldn't bear the shame in his eyes, the guilt when he looked at her. “Thank you. Both.” She all but stumbled away.

 

_“Cullen. Won't you help me? I don't know what's happening.” Solona's blue gown was torn and scorched, her eyes wide with fear. A cage surrounded them, crackling purple, pulsing with a sick energy._

_He looked up at her, confused. The stone was hard beneath his knees. She should not be here, she was gone, lost. But her lip trembled, she stretched her hands out to him. “Come, Cullen. I need you.” The robe fell around her ankles. He closed his eyes, prayed. When he opened them again, she would be gone. He opened his eyes._

_Solona knelt before him, her eyes black pools of darkness. She took his hand and guided it to her soft, pale breast, his gauntleted fingers digging into her bare skin. “I know you want me, Cullen.” Her other hand stroked her sex, parted the glistening folds. “We can be together.”_

_This wasn't her. She was sweet, shy, virginal. And she was inches away, hungry for him and so wet he could smell it. Just a kiss, a respite from the horrors surrounding him. He reached for her._

Juliet woke suddenly when she felt his body twitch, the dawn light just beginning to steal into her quarters. She sat up to find his eyes open wide in fright, before they focused on her and he pushed her back with a shout.

“Away from me, demon!”

“Cullen, it's me.” She reached for his wrist.

“Don't touch me! Vile creature.” He scrabbled at his waist, clutching for his sword. “You're not real. You're dead. A demon. Stay back!”

She felt a dampening energy separate her from her magic. She shrank away, clutching the blankets to her. Cullen looked around wildly, his chest heaving, fists clenched tight. Finally he looked at her and his eyes softened.

“Juliet?” He reached for her and she flinched. “I'm so sorry. Oh, my love, I'm sorry.”

She crept closer and he held her, this time both of them trembling. After a while she clutched at his neck, drew his mouth to hers.

“How can you want me to touch you, after that?” he whispered, his voice hoarse with pain.

She climbed on top of him, wrapping her hand around his cock. “I'm real," she whispered, kissing his neck. "I need to know that you know I'm real.”

He shook his head, confused, even as his body responded to her touch. “Of course I know that.”

She rocked her hips against him. “Fuck me, Cullen. I want you to feel me around you. I want you to shout my name.” She stroked him, insistent. "Fuck me. Please."

He hesitated, but his hips arched towards her and she guided him to her already slick entrance, lowered herself onto his straining cock until he was sheathed deep inside her. His worried eyes were on her face as she rocked against him, his hands splayed on her hips, her dark hair falling around her shoulders.

"Say my name."

His fingers dug into her hips. “Juliet,” he moaned. “Juliet, Juliet.”

She rose and fell, gripping his cock like a vise and he thrust up to meet her, slamming against that spot that made her whimper with pleasure. He raised a hand to cup her breast, her nipple caught between his fingers, and the other hand slid between their bodies, teasing at her until she rippled around him and he broke against her with a hoarse shout. Not her name, but enough.

She was still shaking as he cradled her against him, his hands tangled in her hair. He pressed hard lips to her temple.

“You're real," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

When she finally slept he was still awake, thoughtful, holding her tightly in his arms.


	10. Chapter 10

She felt for him, found the bed empty under her searching hand. Her room swam into focus, Cullen sitting on the edge of the bed, clothed.

“It's early." She reached for him sleepily. “Come back to bed.” He caught her wrist, running a calloused thumb along her skin. He was silent, his eyes downcast.

“Cullen? What's wrong?” She sat up and with her free hand tried to touch his face, only to find both wrists held in his grasp. She raised her mouth to his and he pulled back, evading her. His fingers twined through hers, his lips gently brushing her knuckles.

“Cullen?” At last he looked at her, his eyes shadowed.

Without a word he climbed onto the bed and laid her down on the pillows. She felt his warm fingers part her thighs, the soft huff of his breath against her, the slightest brush of his lips on her damp curls. She quivered, anticipating his touch, aching for him. He pressed his lips against her again and the air caught in her lungs, returning with a slow, shaking exhalation. A single ghosting sweep of his tongue over her slit and suddenly her breathing was erratic, tortured, becoming short, shallow gasps when he darted against her, tasting and withdrawing. Her fingers clenched in the bedclothes and she felt his hands cover hers, warm and reassuring, as his tongue delved inside her.

She arched and trembled, tried to find words to beg him for release but her mind was scattered and the sounds she made were incoherent, plaintive. She lost track of the movement of his mouth in a wave of sensation, a flood gradually building inside her and spilling over, finally leaving her drained and gasping.

He released her and she clutched at his hand as he drew away, his fingers slipping through hers.

He was gone.

 

The Commander was strange that day, stiff, formal. She had no opportunity to speak with him alone until the evening, when she joined him on the walk back to his tower.

“We leave for Emprise du Lion soon.”

His jaw was clenched, the breeze ruffling his hair. “Dress warmly. It's been cold in that region.”

“Yes, I believe I attended that meeting.”

He paused at his door. “Good night, Inquisitor.”

“Good night?” She laughed. “Are you sending me back to my quarters, then?”

He was silent, looking over her shoulder at the fading sunset.

“Cullen?”

Finally he looked at her. “We should sleep apart, for now.”

“Do I get a say in this?”

“No.” He reached for the door and she ducked under his arm, blocking him.

He slammed his fists on the solid oak, leaning close to her, his voice low and hoarse. “I could have hurt you. If I had hurt you...”

“You didn't.”

“This time.” He closed his eyes and leaned against the door. His cheek was close to hers, his breath warm in her ear. “Next time could be different.”

“I can defend myself.”

He spoke through gritted teeth. “Not against me.” He was so near she could feel the heat of his skin, could have shifted her head slightly and brushed her lips against his neck. She didn't.

He straightened. “For your own safety, Lady Trevelyan. I will speak to you before you leave. For now, goodnight.” He waited for her to move aside, and she did. The door closed behind him and she was alone on the ramparts, the night air suddenly chill around her.


	11. Chapter 11

“Demons in his dreams. The bottle kept them quiet.”

“Thank you, Cole, but I really just came to see if you're going to be ready to leave soon.” Juliet leaned against the railing, short-tempered after another war council briefing where Cullen would barely met her eyes.

“Oh yes. I like the snow. It sings.” He stood with his arms crossed, eyes hidden behind a sweep of blond hair. “He's frightened that your face will frighten him.”

She shrugged. “Tell me something I don't know.”

“He thinks he killed her.”

Juliet froze, fingers tight on the railing. “What do you mean?”

“The hero. He thinks he put words in her head, but they were there before she met him.” His pale eyes held an apology. “He can't let her go.”

Solona. Always back to Solona. “What can I do?” She closed her eyes, pain tight in her throat. “He doesn't want me near him.”

"But he does.” Cole's voice was so soft, she strained to hear him over the tavern music below. “Safe and solid, protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him."

The image brought with it a rush of feeling, desire mixed with an empty ache. She needed him. Templar or not, there was no hurt he could do her worse than this. She closed her eyes.

“Cole, can...could you help him forget?”

“Not to forget. He needs to remember.” Cole raised his head, pale eyes shining under the brim of his hat.

“I can help.”

 

The last intelligence report for the day, Red Templar movement in Emprise du Lion. Cullen strained to read it by torch, the light from the slit windows beginning to fade with the wintry evening sun. He had read it five times already.

“They swallowed lies until they sang with darker music. The sound hollowed them.”

Cullen spun, sending a bottle flying from his desk to shatter on the floor. “Maker's breath, how long have you been here?”

Cole was perched on the windowsill in the corner, his face in shadow. “A long time, I think. But your hair is still the same.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting his building headache. “Can I help you, Cole?”

“I don't know,” Cole said, peering out from beneath his hat. “Can you?”

“I'm very busy.” It was true; even moving a small group to the Emprise was a logistical nightmare, with the river frozen over and packs of roaming bandits and Templars on the roads. The Inquisition would have to bring all their own supplies, and as much as they could for the impoverished villagers.

"Uldred marked you, but didn't make you. You stayed you."

Eyes narrowed, he turned to stare at Cole. “What did you say?”

“She saw you. She remembered. Kind, curly. He spoke to us like we were people.”

“Cole, please.”

“She knew even if you meant it, you didn't mean it. They hurt you, made you think things you didn't think.”

Cullen sat heavily, his work forgotten. His voice was a ragged whisper. “How can you know? She's gone. She's been gone for so long.”

“Lifted, loved. She knows if she lets him, he'll save her. He has to take charge, to change things. He can do it. This is something she can do. For the people, for the king, her king.” Cole's voice was soft, singsong. “She is happy. She had a life, in the last year. It wasn't perfect, but it was.”

“I can't…I can't.” Cullen buried his face in shaking hands. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.” Cole stood up. “A Templar. She liked him, he was kind. He will be again. One day, he will make things better.”

He broke then, sobbing silently, his shoulders trembling. “I was wrong. I was so wrong. I did things...I let them happen. We were supposed to keep them safe.”

“You do,” Cole said. “Under our protection. I will not give less to the Inquisition, I will not. You keep them safe. Her, safe.”

“Please.” He groaned, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “What does it mean?”

Cole rested a soft hand on his shaking shoulder.

“She forgave you. Let her go.”

He paused at the door, spoke without turning around. “She's scared you don't see her. She didn't feel real, and you made her real. Now she doesn't know.”

He left and Cullen slumped back in his chair, the forgotten report crumpled in his hand.

 

There were nightmares, as always. Burning, blood, abominations. He turned listlessly on the mattress. Kinloch Hold, Kirkwall, Haven. All burned.

Then silence. He was on his knees, eyes red with exhaustion, tormented. The words he had spoken to her still burned in his throat like bile.

Her eyes were the colour of a storm. She smiled.

“Stay safe.” Soft eyes, forgiving. “It will be over soon.”

_Let her go._

He did.


	12. Chapter 12

“Inquisitor. Juliet.”

He hadn't called her that in days. When his voice softened on those two syllables her breath quickened, hope and desire kindling in her belly, quickly suppressed. She would be dignified. She would not beg, not let him see the physical ache she had felt in his absence.

“Cullen. What can I do for you?” _Anything. I'll do anything._

“If you have a moment to spare later in the day, could you please come and see me?” His arms were crossed, fingers tucked under his arms, a barrier between them. “It's important.”

She mirrored him with crossed arms, her head tilted. “Not something you could discuss at the war table, then?”

The slight curl of a smile, one-sided. “No.”

“I'll see what I can do.” The expedition was leaving tomorrow - it would be the easiest thing in the world to find tasks to keep her busy, leave him nursing whatever justifications and platitudes he had until after she returned. And yet...that note was still in his voice, husky, almost a caress.

“You know where to find me.”

He spun on his heel, leaving her to curse her fevered imagination.

 

Juliet smoothed her tunic, ran hurried fingers through her hair. Then paused, her fingers splayed against his door, not quite pushing. Maker, she had faced so much worse than this. She could open this door, she could handle whatever came next with the grace befitting her station. The Inquisitor, his superior, not the frightened girl who a few nights ago had clung to him, begging him to fuck her, to make her real again. Oh, Maker. She pushed.

He rose from his desk when she entered, briskly securing the door behind her, then the other entrances. She stood waiting, feigning indifference as he returned to stand by the desk, again with his arms crossed.

“I can't do this.” His amber eyes held the quiet intensity she remembered from their early days. She had mistaken his intent then, and she had no idea of it now. She leaned back on the wall, shrugged.

“You made that much clear already.”

In a few strides he was before her, his hands against the wall caging her in, his face held an inch from her own with a barely contained hunger in his eyes. She pressed herself back against the wall, breathing hard, barely daring to hope.

“That's not what I meant.” Slowly, he moved a hand from the wall, fingers not quite touching her face, her neck, lingering so close to her breast she could imagine she felt the heat radiating from him. “I meant this. These past days. I can't do it any more.”

A small shift in her weight and he would be touching her. Was that what he wanted? Desire coiled between her thighs. She tilted her head, bringing her mouth nearer his, close enough to feel the flutter of his breath against her lips. “Then don't.”

Cullen rested his forehead against hers and released a shuddering breath. His fingers brushed lightly against the side of her breast, a fraction of a second, and again, and her breath hitched in her throat, her back arching towards his touch. He brought his mouth to hers, the merest touch, then teeth lightly catching her lower lip and releasing.

He was trembling, she realised, and so was she. Catching his hand in hers she gently tugged the leather glove loose from his fingers, and he pulled it free and let it fall to the floor, forgotten. Carefully he touched his bare fingers to her face, tracing her cheekbones, her lips, the curve of her throat. Each small touch made her lungs constrict and sent warmth pooling between her legs, but she kept her hands at her sides, letting him explore her, her need building with each brush of his fingertips. When he grazed her clothed nipple a sob escaped her, a shock running through her entire body.

“Juliet…” He kissed her, still teasing, but lips and tongue meeting hers, tangling, withdrawing. He shed his second glove and finally put his hands on her, running up under her tunic and sliding warm around her bare waist. His thigh pressed between her legs and she felt she might shatter then, hips bucking of their own accord against him, fingers digging for purchase against the wall. But the ache still built in her almost to the point of discomfort, even as his hot breath skimmed her neck, his teeth teased at the soft skin of her throat.

“Cullen,” she gasped. “What are we doing? I need to know. I can't - “ he ground against her, laving hot, open-mouthed kisses against her neck, “ - I can't…oh, Maker, please...”

Cullen broke away, panting, and she almost cried with frustration. He ran fevered hands through his hair. “I'm sorry. I meant...Oh, Maker.” He paced. “I can't be without you. It's getting better, the lyrium, but there are still nightmares. If I hurt you…” He glanced at her, tortured. “Until I know it's gone, I don't think we should sleep together.”

“Cullen.” Still breathless, she stepped in front of him and stopped his pacing, taking his hands in hers. “That's fine. What if for now, we just...don't sleep?”

He was silent for a second then laughed, lifted her off her feet and pulled her to him for a savage kiss, his hands roaming all over her body. He broke away as quickly, fingers working at his armour. “We need to get upstairs now,” he growled, “or we won't make it.”

She was halfway up the ladder before he finished speaking.


	13. Chapter 13

In the loft they shed their clothes, fingers trailing over exposed skin, days of withheld kisses and whispers on their lips ending in a breathless tangle of limbs on the bed.

She guided his hand down, desperate to quench the fire he had kindled in her. A single dip of his fingers inside her, drawing her wetness over her sensitised skin, rolling her bud between his fingertips. Orgasm hit her like a thunderclap, a jolt of lightning followed by a rush of noise. He watched her parted lips, her breath held for a moment after each exhalation, her eyelashes fluttering.

He took his time then, gently coaxing her body back to responsiveness. His hands stroked and soothed, and his mouth lavished attention on her neck and her pink-tipped breasts, each draw of his lips on her nipples pulling strings deep inside her, reawakening her need for him.

When she was ready he rested his weight on his arms, and at her unspoken affirmation he eased inside her. Their bodies joined seamlessly, with an effortlessness born of practice. They fucked with long, languid strokes, rolling and tangling in the blankets. Her hair fell in his face, his mouth captured her small moans, then her louder cries.

At last they lay spent with her back resting against his chest, his softened cock nestled against her thighs.

She took his hand and twined her fingers through his. “No sleeping, remember?”

“Mmm.” He slid her hair back to kiss her neck.

“Tell me about her.”

“Who?”

“You know.”

He was silent for a moment, twirling her hair around his fingers. “What do you want to know?”

“How did you meet?”

“I was stationed at Kinloch Hold, straight out of my training. She had been there since she was a very young child.”

“Were the mages allowed family, in Ferelden?”

“Correspondence. No visits. But she had no family.” He paused. “No family she knew of. We found out later she had siblings, all assigned to different Circles. Leliana looked for them, but...” It needed no explanation - a failed Harrowing here, a Rite of Tranquility there, the upheaval of the mage rebellion and the war that followed. “The Amell name used to carry some weight in Kirkwall.”

“Hawke’s mother was an Amell.”

“Yes. Solona’s mother was her cousin. It was rumoured she went mad after the Templars took her first child, and she disappeared not long after. Solona knew none of this. The Circle was all she remembered.”

“What of her father?”

“He fled Kirkwall with the remaining four children. Given they all ended up in the Circle, it's likely he was killed defending them.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Perhaps it's better not to know, sometimes.”

“Yes.” He tightened his arm around her. “She was contented enough, I think. Before Jowan.” She knew the story. “She was often in the library. When I was posted there we would talk. Not much, it wasn't encouraged, but she asked me about myself, my family. She was...sweet.”

Juliet twisted to look at him.

“Were the two of you ever…?”

“No. She was one of my charges. Even if she felt the same, it would have been...inappropriate.” He ran a finger over her cheek.

“I saw her once after she became a Warden. She freed the Tower during the blight. I would be dead or mad if not for her.”

She was silent, letting him remember.

“I was in a sorry state when she found me. The things I said were...unkind, untoward. I regret them now.” He looked at her, his eyes dark with pain. “I wish she knew that.”

She cupped his cheek. “I know it. Can that be enough?”

He kissed her, long and gentle. She turned to face him and twined her arms around his neck, resting her head against his collarbone. “I should go.”

“You should.” He tilted her face up to his, a wicked gleam in his eye. “But first…?”

She laughed with delight, pulling him to her.

“Yes.”


	14. Chapter 14

Juliet took the stairs two at a time. Rough weather had forced them to seek shelter at an inn the day before, and while she was glad to be arriving clean and rested, she had chafed at the delay. They had barely reached the gates of Skyhold before the sun was falling behind the Frostback Mountains.

She found him standing at the ramparts, bathed in light, the pink and orange of the sunset reflecting in his armour. He turned and she saw that his eyes were clear, his movements unhampered by pain.

She threw herself into a kiss and he returned it with fervour, lifting her off her feet. She grinned, absurdly happy.

“I trust you’re feeling better?”

“I am. All the more for seeing you again. Come,” he drew her into his office and poured two cups of wine. “Tell me about the Emprise du Lion.”

She perched on his desk, unlacing her boots. “I would think you’d have read all the reports by now.”

“I have. Several times.” He smiled. “But I’d like to hear it from you.”

The darkness fell, and he circled his arms around her as she finally fell silent, his chin resting atop her head.

“How are the nightmares?” she asked.

“Better. Much better. I should not have pushed myself so far, that day.”

She pulled back to kiss him, her hands resting on his shoulders. He looked into her eyes as if he were drawing her picture on his soul.

“I’ve never told anyone what truly happened to me in Ferelden’s circle. I was not myself after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me.” He swallowed thickly. “I’m not proud of the man that made me. The way I saw mages...I’m not sure I would have cared about you." He put a hand on her cheek, his thumb tracing her lips. "The thought of that sickens me.”

She took his hands in hers and kissed them, and he smiled.

“Now I can put some distance between myself and everything that happened.”

He let her remove his furred mantle, and she hooked her feet around the backs of his legs, pulling him closer. “For what it’s worth, I like who you are now.”

“Even after…?” Trembling hands moved to the neck of her tunic, releasing the top stays.

Juliet took his face in her hands, ran soft fingers through his hair. “Cullen, I care about you. You’ve done nothing to change that.”

Their mouths met again in a tangle of lips and tongue, both sets of hands working at the stays of her tunic until it was undone. He pulled back to look at her as he parted the fabric, smiling to find her bare underneath.

“Upstairs?” she whispered. He nodded, hunger burning in his eyes.

But no sooner had she set foot on the ladder than she felt him seize her waist, holding her down. She kept her grip on the rungs as he grasped her breasts in his rough hands, drawing her nipples to aching peaks. His body trapped her against the ladder and his mouth was hot against her neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

She pushed back against him and he groaned, one hand slipping down to the seam between her legs, grinding and pushing against the fabric. He slipped both hands beneath her waistband, sliding wetly against her aching skin, her juices running over his fingers. “Turn around,” he murmured raggedly.

She spun, fingers still curled around the ladder. Cullen’s amber eyes were dark with desire. He bent and bit her breast, drawing the nipple between his teeth, and she arched with a soundless scream. Her leggings were dragged over her hips and down and she lifted each foot in turn to help him free her. Then one leg was hooked over his shoulder and his mouth was buried in her cunt, her fingers gripping the rungs until her knuckles were white.

The rough wood kept her anchored even as her mind floated, all her senses centred on his roaming tongue, his hand gripping her thigh. The noises she was making seemed to come from some other place, high pitched and needy as he licked between her soaking folds with a fierce hunger. He slid three fingers inside her, pumping in and out, sucking hard at her clit and this time she did scream, clenching around his fingers, her legs turning to liquid.

The rungs slipped from her nerveless fingers and he eased her down into his lap, heart fluttering and kicking against her ribcage.

“Upstairs next time, then?”

He kissed her, the taste of her on his tongue. “We’ll see. It’s early.”

She rested a hand on his breastplate. “Always with the armour, Cullen. Take it off.”

“As you command, Inquisitor.”

 

Dawn found them still at the bottom of the ladder, her naked body sprawled over his, her face buried in his neck. She stirred, and he stroked her back, his arousal already returning.

“Juliet?”

“Mmmm?”

“I love you.”

She ran lazy fingers down his chest, pressed a lingering kiss to his throat. “I love you too, Cullen.”

They would make things better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaving these guys here now. Happily ever after, married with Mabari etc. Thanks for the kudos and lovely comments!


End file.
